20 Pharast 4711 AR,
Ravengro, Canterwall,
The Immortal Principality of Ustalav,
The Inner Sea Region, Golarion,

Life had its cruel twists, as you had learned more than once, and another such blow came in the form of a letter. It was sealed in black wax and bore the familiar hand of Kendra Lorrimor, daughter of your old friend Petros. In it, she invited you to his funeral.

The news struck deep. Petros had been more than a friend to you—and he must have felt the same, for your name had been included in his will. Well, let's say Egelina was going to the funeral on behalf of her late brother. Perhaps he had seen in you something you had yet to recognize in yourself. Or perhaps he simply knew you were someone he could trust, even beyond death.

The shock lingered as you read and reread the words. Petros had been nearing sixty, but his vigor—of mind and body—was something even younger men envied. A lecturer at Lepidstadt University, a celebrated writer, and a man who had braved dangers beyond counting, he was nonetheless careful, deliberate, and difficult to imagine meeting his end so suddenly. Kendra had not written how he died, but you could guess: his life had been too steeped in peril to end quietly in a bed.

By noon, you arrived in Ravengro—a somber little town crouched between the forest’s shadows and the gray sheen of a lake. Fate had bound you together on the road the day before, in the “Shadow’s Claws Inn" between Chastel and Tamrivena, where, by chance or by darker design, you discovered that all of you traveled to the same funeral.

The town’s welcome was no warmer than its weather. A sagging fence and a rusted gate marked its edge. Just within, a wooden pole bore a nailed board with a crude map of Ravengro. Beneath it, painted in black letters already streaked by rain, stood the words:

It hardly surprised you. In Ustalav’s smaller towns, suspicion was a second religion. The folk feared magic, and anything—or anyone—different from themselves. Rahela, Shaewyn, and Vladislava might be taken for too pale, but under Ustalav's sun, forever dimmed by clouds, pallor was no rarity. Calpurnia’s horns could be hidden beneath a hood. Yua’s exotic features drew the most curious stares, though not kindly ones. Egelina, clad in steel, might be dismissed as another wandering soldier of fortune. Still, none of it mattered—not today.

You traced the professor’s home on the rain-soaked map and set out. The downpour had not relented since morning. As you walked the narrow streets, houses of wood and brick hunched together as if in conspiracy. Curtains stirred, eyes watching. Those few townsfolk who braved the weather hastened away at the sight of you, faces curled in open contempt. Yet none dared confront you. Behind shutters and lace, they whispered, and they watched.

On a low hill beyond the town rose the silhouette of a larger, darker shape. Its walls loomed through the sheets of rain, heavy with foreboding.

At last, you stood before the Lorrimor house. It lay withdrawn from the main path, amid an untended garden choked with weeds and barren shrubs. Once proud, the two-story timber house sagged with age, its best days long past. Whether the professor had chosen its seclusion to keep the town at bay, or whether the town had driven him to its edge, you could not say. The windows stared with hollow black eyes, and the whole place seemed to shiver with a chill grief, as though it knew its master would never return.

You climbed the narrow steps to the veranda. Egelina rapped hard upon the door. Silence, for a time. Then, at last, the sound of a lock turning.

The door opened.

A woman stood there, young and fair, yet worn by sorrow. Her eyes were glassy and rimmed red, her cheeks pale against the black mourning dress she wore. No adornment marked her but a single golden pendant, hanging heavy upon her breast. She sniffed once, gathering herself, and her voice—low, feminine, and trembling—broke the rain’s drumming silence.
“So you have come, after all. I am glad… I feared you would not make it. My name is Kendra. I am Petros’s daughter.”

She stepped back, opening the door wider. Her gaze lingered on you—on the tiefling’s horns, on the pale faces, on the stranger’s eyes from distant lands—but she showed no fear. Only weariness.
“Come in. The weather is merciless today. You may warm yourselves by the fire.”

Inside, the house smelled faintly of lavender. The warmth of the hearth reached you as she led the way down a wide hallway into a parlor richly furnished yet strangely cold. Shelves heavy with books lined the walls. A leather sofa and two armchairs framed a low table where a carafe of wine and six waiting glasses gleamed. Firelight flickered against the bricks of the wide hearth opposite the door.
“Please, sit,” Kendra said softly, gesturing to the seats. “How was your journey? Not too hard, I hope? Will you drink or eat something? I prayed you would arrive in time, for I have no one here to carry my father’s coffin.”

Her voice wavered. She lowered her head, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, then looked at you again.
“The coffin lies in the room at the end of the hall. It must be borne out the back doors—there is no other way. Father Grimmburow will already be waiting at the graveyard.”

She hesitated. Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying your faces one by one.
“But… wait.” Her voice was quieter now, but sharper. “I sent a letter to a man named Galbreath, of Dawnton. Yet here I see six women. Six invitations, but no man here... Can you explain this to me?”

OOC

Yua stood among the others, the rain matting her sandy-blond ponytail against her back and purple eyes narrowing with a sharper edge as she read the crude sign outside Ravengro: “Wizards will be burned.” For a moment, her expression hardened into something resembling focus, and she thought briefly how fortunate it was that she alone had come and her master was safely at home. The townsfolk’s stares slid from her like water off stone; she gave them no mind in the rare cases she even noticed. Books and tasks filled her thoughts, not their misplaced suspicion. Still, the message was clear. She had no reason to use her magic in public here, so simply would not - unless, of course, someone gave her cause.

When the Lorrimor house’s door opened, Yua stepped in with the others, quiet as the turning of a page. She looked about the parlor with keen eyes, lingering on the bookshelves. As if not hearing Kendra's offer of a seat and wine, her steps carried her toward the books almost unconsciously. Her voice came belatedly, soft but precise, as if the thought of introductions had only just occurred to her. “I am Yua Kurosawa,” she said, gaze skimming a spine of cracked leather. It didn't occur to her that her foreign name and appearance made this obvious enough already. Tilting her head slightly toward Kendra without turning to face her, she added, “Why did Professor Lorrimor live in this village? It seems the townsfolk do not value scholarship, least of all in the arcane.” The words are not unkind, but neutral, investigatory.

"I am...unskilled in manual labor, but will do my best to assist with carrying the coffin. If he desired to be buried after death, we should honor his request."

Vladislava had been unerringly silent the entire time the group had been travelling from the Shadow's Claw Inn. Not that, even in the best of times, she was a particularly talkative woman, but beyond a few brief words identifying herself and her reasons for visiting Ravengro she had obstinately refused to speak. A less inquisitive mind might have simply assumed that she was unfriendly - the way she wore her collar high to hide her pale skin certainly didn't help the impression - but any who studied her features more closely would mark the grief written plain on her face. It was easy to see in the constantly furrowed brow, the tight-set jaw, the lower lip held so tight that it could be quivering. As the rain poured, plinking against the wide-brimmed hat she never went anywhere without, she held her head high and her gaze straight ahead, looking like all the world around her didn't exist. Though covered by a shawl she had wrapped around her body to protect herself from the rain, the end of a longbow could be seen peeking out, as well as the pommel of a sword. She also walked with a long, gnarled stick in her left hand, one whose many deep scratch marks suggested that it had seen many years of use.

She paid little heed to the map and its accompanying warning. Vladislaya had wandered through most of the small villages in that part of Ustalav, and knew many of them well; however, she had only stopped into Ravengro itself a scant few times. It was only after she had met Professor Lorrimor that she had much cause to come to the place at all. It hadn't been that long since she had passed through, though the days tended to blend together, and the professor had seemed hale and hearty for someone of his advanced age. The news had equally devastated her and surprised her, not merely because of his death but because he had thought of her in his will. To be sure, they had grown close over the past few months, closer than she had been to anyone in a long time, but she didn't judge them close enough for such a remembrance. She supposed it wasn't her place to judge the actions of the dead, merely to try and honor their lives and their last wishes.

"Vladislava Ciobanu." She said flatly by way of greeting after Kendra and Yua had introduced themselves. She knew Kendra by name if not by sight; the two of them hadn't met before today, but the professor had mentioned his daughter before. Yua, however, was an entirely unknown element to her, and Vladislava preferred to keep it that way. The six of them had met by chance on the road, but like as not they would not be long in town. After the will was executed, they would go their separate ways. She strode towards one of the available armchairs in the room, unslinging her bow from around her shoulder and leaning it against the chair; she had left her muddy walking stick outside where it would not dirty the floors. She then took a seat, but did not seem very keen on relaxing. Indeed, her back was exceedingly straight as she regarded the others in the room, then gazed in the direction of the hallway. Doubtless, she was imagining the room at the end of the hall where the professor lay in his coffin. Her fists were clenched, though it was unclear if from anticipation or simple nerves.